Date: Mon, 5 Aug 2019 13:02:49 -0400
From: gauntleted@gmail.com
Subject: Camp Dentistry

CAMP DENTISTRY

Disclaimer: the following story contains depictions of somewhat intensive
sadomasochistic activities.

Camp Colmillo, way out in the New Mexico desert, caters mostly to groups of
Boy Scouts but also Girl Scouts, Venture Scouts and the occasional workshop
of Christian families. They come for a week at a time, then the weekend
comes. And then the counselors have the place to themselves.

Everyone told me those would be the best days of my life, but my first
summer at Colmillo, the summer I turned 20, I took a while to get to know
people. I loved it out there -- the smell of dry pines mingling with dust,
the stars at night -- and I got along great with the kids who came in every
week, and with their parents. But the fratty carnival of sports games and
fishing trips and beer-drunk bonfires that took place on the weekend was
never my thing. So whenever my bunkmates at Staff Camp would invite me out,
I usually would just say "No, thanks", and spend the weekend reading in the
quiet corners of camp.

The only strange friendship I made that summer was with Keaton Brown, the
camp medic. We were pretty different. I was quiet and shy; he was tough and
loud, a Navy vet who wasn't afraid to say or do anything. But in a way we
both were odd men out. Maybe it was because he was in his late 20s, which
made him way older than most of the other counselors. Or maybe it was just
the way he was. Half the time he would go to parties or on trips with the
other counselors. If he played sports with them, he played to win. If he
drank with them, he would stir up the most trouble. But just as often he
would stay behind.

After a while he started forcing his company on me without a trace of
shyness. He would sit right next to me in the empty camp with a "Howdy" and
break out his knife and start whittling, or tinkering with a watch, or
whatever else. Often he'd just work quietly, so I didn't mind. But every
once in a while he'd make some comment or ask me about myself, and sooner
or later he was a friend.

I think I was one of the few people that saw this side of Keaton. Otherwise
he was known as someone to look out for -- a loose cannon who always had the
gleam of trouble in his eye. When he told you "Come over here, I wanna show
you something", you hesitated. Maybe he'd shove you into a headlock and,
before you could protest, crack your neck roughly like a chiropractor.
Maybe he would hold out a ghost pepper he brought back from the county
store and innocently dare you to try it. Complain of a splinter or a tick
around camp, and he'd appear out of nowhere eagerly clicking the sharp end
of a pair of tweezers: "Want me to get it?" Pass out drunk in his cabin,
and he'd grab a packet of smelling salts from his kit and boast to his
audience, "Watch this, he'll be up in one... two... Liftoff!"

Yup, Keaton Brown -- or Doc Brown, as he claimed to have been called in his
Corpsman days -- had a definite streak of mischief. A streak which, in my
opinion, bordered on sadistic. And he had the face to match, which made him
no less intimidating: one of those faces whose thick eyebrows permanently
slant down and inward, making every grin look like a wicked grin; every
blank expression look like a fierce frown. His jaw was thick and bony, his
nose turned slightly up, and he had a redneck's goofy sideways smile, which
with his intense stare could make him look a little bit deranged. And his
body was wiry and powerful, thick veins underlaid by ropy muscles.

Yes, he was hot, which was another problem. At 20 I wasn't out yet, and
even though everyone at Colmillo was welcoming as can be, I took the Boy
Scouts' passively hostile stance towards gays seriously. When Keaton would
work out shirtless in the empty camp, I couldn't help staring over my book
a little too long, drawing playful comments.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," he'd say.

I'd always laugh and look away, trying to diffuse the tension. Making it
into the joke he probably meant it to be. Until the day I found out his
jokes could get more serious than I thought.

This is that story.

It began like any other Saturday. Keaton was sitting at the picnic table of
the empty Staff Camp polishing some tools. I was reading a couple feet
away, in a hammock strung between two pines.

At some point I looked up, and did a double take. Keaton was holding a tool
I had never seen before: a metal pick with a sharp curved end like a hook,
carefully wiping it down with a towelette. It was a nasty-looking thing,
and I had a feeling it was for medicine, not for mechanics.

His eyes flashed up to me, and immediately I looked down. Weirdly, I got
the same feeling as when I'd been caught watching him work out.

"Hey, Whisman."

Keaton always called me by my last name, Whisman. I looked up and met his
gaze for the second time in a few seconds. Today he was dressed in Army
camo pants and a tank top, which revealed the constellation of freckles and
the layer of soft blond fur that covered his thick arms. A backwards cap
held back his wild sand-colored hair.

"You know what this is, Whisman?" Keaton asked. He held up the pick,
point-forward, surveying it with satisfaction.

I shook my head, but I did know, and I said it as a guess. "Looks like
something a dentist would use."

"That is correct," Keaton said lazily, still staring at the hooked tool as
he rotated it. His voice was just deep enough that its vibration rang
slightly in your bones.

"I didn't know you fixed people's teeth over in the med cabin," I said
casually.

"I didn't," he said, his slight Arkansas drawl making it come out like
"diiint". He put the tool down and picked up another one, a sickle-like
thing that looked even nastier than the first. "Kit just came in the mail
the other day. It's for cleaning teeth. Problem is, I've only got myself to
practice using it on."

"Oh," I said. "Does it work well? Like, do your teeth feel clean when you
use it?"

"Tools like this only work as well as the operator," Keaton said, wiping
the sickle-shaped pick now. Then he set it down and shifted his position,
beckoning towards me with both hands at once. "Whisman, come over here for
a second, won't you?"

I froze, my heart beating in my chest. "No, thanks."

Of course this never worked. "Whaddaya mean, no thanks?" Keaton exclaimed,
arms going wide in an incredulous shrug so I could see the round inner
surface of his biceps, the blond tufts of armpit hair. "What, you think
this is a game of tag? I'm right here, I'm not asking you to do much. Don't
be so aggravating."

"Alright, alright," I grumbled, and dog-eared my book and clambered out of
the hammock. I sat on the bench across from him at the table. "What is it?"

He simply patted the bench next to him, indicating me to sit closer.

I sighed heavily, and shuffled around the table, Keaton watching me all the
time with a smirk. I sat next to him. "What's up?"

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked. A hand reached up for my
chin. "Now lemme take a look at your teeth real quick."

I dodged the hand. I should have known where this was going. "No way," I
said. "Don't touch me with those things."

"Did I say anything about touching you?" he said, though he had frozen with
his arm half-outstretched, obviously to touch me. "I just wanna take a
quick look, buddy. Just for a sec."

I sighed, and reluctantly let him grasp my chin with his hand. The thick
strong fingers were rough as sandpaper. "Open wide, now."

I felt him jerk my chin upward, and I obeyed. I breathed heavily and
awkwardly through my open mouth, watching his eyes flit up and down as he
steered my head gently one way, then the other. Then he let go, and I
closed my mouth.

"When's the last time you got your teeth cleaned at the dentist?"

I didn't like this quick shift from day-off Keaton to officious, medical
Keaton. "Why, who's asking?" I said defensively.

He shoved me, lightly, but just quick enough for it to feel aggressive.
"Your camp medic is asking, bud," he retorted. "C'mon." That was another
word where his drawl came out like a thunderclap, making the end of
"C'mown" rhyme with "down."

I shrugged. "Not since I left high school, I guess," I admitted.

Keaton raised his eyebrows. "High school?" he said, incredulous. "You know
you're supposed to get that done every six months, don'tcha?"

"Yeah, I guess," I said. "But I aged out from my pediatric dentist, and you
know. My teeth are fine."

"I'll be the judge of that," Keaton said, and this time he didn't ask
before he grasped my head again, pushing my forehead back with one hand
while he pulled my jaw down in the other. "Doesn't look so good in there to
me, fella. I think you need a visit to the med cabin."

I squirmed out of his hands. "What? Forget it. You're not a dentist."

Click! Keaton closed the shiny metal box from whence the dental tools had
come. "And you'd better be damn glad I ain't!" he said. "That shit's
expensive. Man, I'm offering you a bargain. Free teeth cleaning? You got a
yard with an insurance tree?"

"Yeah, it's expensive," I shot back, getting up from the table. "When you
have it done by a professional."

At this Keaton just scoffed. "Pff, it's not rocket science. Besides, you
know I got steadier hands then a surgeon. Or don't you trust your buddy Doc
Brown?"

I thought for a second. I definitely didn't trust him: not to tell me the
truth, not to not hurt me, and not to respect my boundaries. But -- and
maybe it was his cockiness getting to me -- I trusted that he was a damn
good medic. He might like messing with people, but he wouldn't mess up.

Besides. My stomach turned over again, and I felt a weird type of fear
which was... almost enjoyable.

I sighed. "You really want to play dentist on me, huh?"

Keaton grinned his wide crazy grin. "Call it work instead of play, if it
makes ya feel better," he said, and rose swiftly from the table. "Meet me
at the med cabin in fifteen minutes."

"What, now?"

"Well, would you rather we make an appointment?" He slapped me hard on the
shoulder before he headed off. "Now go brush your teeth, Whisman. I'll be
waitin'."

Camp was empty as I made my way over a few minutes later. The med cabin was
tucked under an oak tree next to the dining hall. My stomach was full of
butterflies as I knocked on the door.

There was a moment of shuffling, then Keaton opened the inner door, peering
at me through the screen. He'd thrown a short-sleeve camp uniform shirt
over his tank top, though he hadn't buttoned it. "If it isn't my favorite
guinea pig," he said, and opened the screen door for me. "Come on in."

I had never been inside the med cabin, and for some reason my heart beat
faster when I entered into the antiseptic-scented air. The place was
something of a cross between a true cabin, and a 1930's medical bay. The
waiting room had the same old Adirondack furniture as the rest of camp, but
the walls were painted shiny white. I followed Keaton through a door marked
"TREATMENT ROOM", into a room which really felt like an Army medical bay.
The walls were lined with makeshift drawers, except for one corner, where
there was an old sink. In the center of the room stood an examination chair
-- not exactly like a dentist's chair, but close enough.

"I've never had you in here before, have I, bud?" Keaton said casually,
closing the door behind him. The short sleeves hugged his thick upper arms,
and they rode up his bicep when he reached out, making them even shorter. A
stethoscope was slung casually around his neck.

I gulped. "Nope," I said.

He whistled. "Then it must be my lucky day." He put the stethoscope in his
ears. "Quick listen?" He took my shoulder and yanked me towards him,
slipping the stethoscope under my shirt without a trace of shyness.

"I thought you were gonna clean my teeth, not my chest," I grumbled.

"Shh." He listened intently for a moment, then removed the metal piece of
the stethoscope. "Gotta keep it professional, since we had you talking
shit." Then he reached around my side to pull the back of my shirt upward,
making way for the stethoscope to swoop in and press my upper back. The
motion, with Keaton's arm around me holding me in place, felt oddly like an
embrace. I reddened.

He didn't react, but removed the stethoscope a second later, took it off
his ears, and yanked my hand outward by the wrist so with his other hand he
could rest a finger on my pulse. "A little quick," he said. "Not nervous,
are ya, bud?"

"No," I said defensively.

"I wouldn't blame ya!" With a hand on my back he steered me towards the
chair, then pushed my shoulders calmly but firmly downward, buckling my
knees so I sat down. "I'm not the biggest fan of going to the dentist.
That's the great thing about being a medic." He winked. "Everything's a lot
more fun when you're the operator."

I rolled my eyes. "You're such an asshole," I said vehemently. "And I can't
believe you talked me into this."

"Din't take much talkin. Lift your head up, now." He billowed a white cloth
bib down onto my front, tying it swiftly behind the back of my neck.
"Comfy?" he grinned.

"Just get it over with, Keaton," I grumbled. "This isn't how I planned to
spend my Saturday."

"Hey. It's Doc Brown in here." There was a tinkling noise as he dumped all
his dental tools down onto a metal tray attached to the edge of the chair.
It really was a pretty similar setup to a dentist's office. There was even
a big round light, though it looked more like something from an operating
room. I shivered.

He reached for a drawer and opened it, taking out two crumpled white latex
gloves. I laid my head back, trying to relax, maybe even pretend I was
somewhere else. But Keaton moved to stand directly over me. He smirked as
he pulled on the first glove, directly in my field of vision.

"Now, I haven't done this in a number of years," he explained, wiggling his
long fingers as he adjusted the glove. "But I used to fix teeth all the
time back in the service."

"Really?" I said. "Do they train you to do that?"

He froze, his other hand poised at the entrance of the second glove, and
looked at me like I had asked a stupid-ass question. "Brother, when someone
needs something out in the field, you train yourself pretty quick." He
slipped the second glove on swiftly, with a flourish. "And I've yanked out
plenty of teeth in my day." As he said it, he pulled the glove over his
watch and down his wrist, letting it go with a huge SNAP. It made his
comment feel almost like a threat.

I gulped. "Reassuring," I said.

Keaton grabbed a dental mirror. "Ready for me to take a look, big boy?" he
asked. "Open up."

I hesitantly obeyed, opening my mouth slightly. Then Keaton's thumb and
forefinger invaded my mouth, forcing my jaw open as he inserted the mirror.
The empty hand pinned my head down to the headrest, and with me immobile,
the mirror delicately moved. I looked up and saw Keaton glaring down at me
as I breathed in the rubbery stench of his latex gloves.

"Mmmm-hmm," he said. He removed his fingers, freeing me, only to swiftly
switch the mirror into his other hand and shove a gloved fore- and middle
finger back inside, retracting my cheek. I made an indistinct "Ungh" as the
grip tightened. He smirked slightly.

"Alright," he drawled. "Yeah, I see where we can start." Then he withdrew,
and this time he plinked the mirror back down and straightened up, allowing
me to close my mouth and lick my dry lips.

"See, that wadn't so bad, was it?" He patted my cheek. His glove felt
strangely smooth.

"You didn't do anything," I snapped.

"No, I most certainly din't," he said with glee. He was grabbing something
else from a drawer:  a paper dust mask, which he now put on. Even though
his mouth and nose were hidden, I could see the deranged smile in his eyes.
"But I'm just about ready to start."

I just let out a noise between a groan and whimper, and sank deeper into
the chair.

"Cheer up, Whisman," Keaton said. He switched on the operating light with a
click, blinding me. "You might even enjoy it."

What? I thought, hearing the clink of him picking up some tools. But I
didn't have time to think before I felt the smooth touch of a gloved finger
on the bottom of my chin.

"Open wide," his voice growled, close to my ear.

I opened my mouth. The operating light was partially blocked as he leaned
over me, then he shoved a well-chosen finger into place, which seemed to
keep my whole head from moving. I felt a sharp sensation as something
metallic moved between my back teeth and my gums. Then the sensation got
stronger as the thing moved irresistibly deeper.

"That hurt?" Keaton murmured.

"Mm-mm," I said, shaking my head slightly.

"Hold still," he chided me. "This thing ain't no Popsicle stick."

And he started working. Unable to move, my mouth pried open in Keaton's
hands, I felt the sharp, solid shape of the pick scrape and explore. It was
not a huge instrument, but there was all the strength of Keaton's muscular
arm in the relentlessness with which it traced its lines. With each
movement of the pick I could different tendons of his hand twist and tense
underneath the glove. A moment later, I winced as he poked soft gums.
Keaton reached for a piece of gauze and pressed it to my mouth. I tasted
salt.

"Mmmgh!" I cried out.

"I know," Keaton said, not removing his hand which clamped the gauze firmly
to me. I spluttered for a moment more and he briefly removed it.

"I'm bleeding!" I protested.

"Buddy, you haven't had a cleaning in almost two years. What'd you expect
it to be easy?" He shoved the gauze back inside, and as he held it pressed
down he switched his pick for a mirror, using it to retract my cheek as he
peeked around. "Do you floss?"

"Ungh," I said, but I was thoroughly annoyed. Had I ever seen Keaton floss?
He wasn't a dentist!

But I had no way to say any of this, and a second later the gauze was out
and another pick was back, its point hovering above my face. "Open up and
hold still," Keaton ordered.

I did, and he got back to work. I tried not to look up at his face, the
thick slanted eyebrows glowering in concentration above the mask, but there
was nowhere else to look. With one hand he shoved a probing thumb downward,
almost to gain traction for the han working with the scraper. Every once in
a while he would shift the position of the hand holding my mouth open --
sometimes subtly, so I felt the soft surface of his glove rustle against my
cheek; and sometimes roughly and without warning, removing his hand and
then shoving a different finger into another part of my mouth.

I noticed after a minute that he was going more or less around the curve of
my mouth, and as soon as I was done so, he started explaining it. "See,
your mouth is divided into quadrants," he explained, talking at a low gruff
murmur, since he was inches from my head. He didn't stop working as he
talked either, meaning that the words came in a sort of slow trance of
concentration. "I'm gonna start with the lower left quadrant, lower right,
then move to the upper two." He paused in his scraping and tapped each part
of my mouth as he said this, on the last bit pulling back my upper lip with
his forefinger and poking the roof of my mouth with his middle.

"How long is this gonna take?" I asked.

"Long as I need, buddy," he said. "Or do you wanna bleed any more than you
need to?" He pressed a thick finger against my closed lips, almost to pry
them apart: "Now open up."

Now his hand curled around the outside of my chin as he started working on
my bottom front teeth. I could see his forearms flex each time he dug the
pick into the space between teeth and scraped hard up the crack. I felt
strange and incredibly vulnerable. Like that tiny tool in his hands was
entering places of my body I hadn't even known existed.

He started working in the lower gumline, and a sharp cold knifelike pain
accompanied each move of the pick. I groaned, squirming, but felt the
vicelike grip on my chin tighten to keep me still.

"You're bleeding like a Tarantino movie," Keaton said cheerfully, but he
didn't remove the hand holding me down for long enough that I could
complain. He pressed with the gauze, then kept going, starting on the back
of the teeth. "Yeehaw! Look at that plaque." He held the pick up to my eyes
to show me a lump of yellowish material on it, then wiped it on my bib and
continued.

His thumb, thick as a hot dog, was wedged between my upper and lower jaws.
It felt like I was choking on it. There was nowhere else to put my tongue.
I brushed my tongue over it by accident, and I could feel how tight his
glove was, pulled smooth over the shape of his thumbnail.

Then he re-tightened his grip, digging his thumb deeper, and when I looked
up I couldn't believe how close his masked face was to mine. His eyes
stared down at me, but not at me -- at the work he was doing in my mouth.
Had he noticed I was looking?

As soon as I thought it, he uncurled and curled the fingers of the hand
holding my mouth open, and then brushed against my cheek. It could have
been just an absent motion, the way to adjust your grip on something heavy
after a while. But it was a bizarrely intimate gesture, the feeling of his
smooth fingers curling into my face, stroking me. I let out a small groan.

"Good boy," Keaton murmured, and I was too distracted to register that it
wasn't quite a normal thing to say. I tried to swallow without closing my
mouth, causing my body to convulse slightly, but Keaton's grip held my head
still. I felt vulnerable, but oddly thrilled.

He dug into the back of my lower front teeth with the pick, bringing a stab
of pain. "Unghh," I groaned. A firm scrape upwards. Then again, and this
time he dug in deeper, tracing around my gums. "Unngh!" I squeezed my eyes
shut, feeling tears well up in them.

"Mm-hmm," he said, a slightly condescending sort of noise, like Yeah, of
course it hurts. I was struck how soft his voice was, inches from my ear.
"Just hold still for me, buddy."

And strangely, maybe because I had nothing else to concentrate on, I tried
to. I grunted, but surrendered to the jerking motions going on inside my
mouth. I surrendered to the strong grip of the fingers prodding at me. I
kept my mouth open, limp, as strong fingers swiftly pressed and removed the
salty taste of blood.

The pain suddenly increased scrape by scrape -- sharp, acrid, sour like
nails on a chalkboard -- and my eyes squeezed shut; I tried to pretend I was
somewhere else. But I couldn't picture anyplace. And I realized I wasn't
really concentrating on trying. I was concentrating on the pressure of
Keaton's fingers probing inside my mouth; the shape of the bony joints
shrink-wrapped in latex; the pressure of them.

"Now close," purred Keaton's voice close to my head.

I closed my mouth, but he hadn't withdrawn his hand completely; his thick
pointer finger remained inside. Without thinking, I wrapped my lips around
it, ran my tongue over it like a Popsicle, and sucked.

My eyes shot open.

Keaton didn't say anything; but above the dust mask, his eyes were crinkled
tight in a wicked smile. They met mine, and slowly he drew his finger out
of my mouth, a tiny string of saliva keeping us attached for a second. This
string, returning to his characteristic douchiness, he wiped lazily on my
chin.

I was paralyzed with horror. Apologies ran through my head. But Keaton
acted as if what had happened was the most natural thing in the world.

"See," he said simply, "I knew you'd be a good patient." He put down the
tool he had been holding and grabbed another one, holding it high in front
of his eyes. Apparently he had to double-check that its shape was pointy
and terrifying enough. "Now," he started, "I saw something else interesting
in there, and I wanna check it out." He twirled the new tool between two
fingers like a baton, the way a jock does with a pencil in a boring class.
"Open up wide, now."

I did so, and the hook of a hand on my chin fixed me roughly in place a
second afterwards. The masked face leaned over me, eyes squinting. I tasted
rubber- and metal-scented air as the tool entered.

Then Keaton said, "This might hurt a little."

And suddenly it hurt.

"Auugh!" I cried out, giving a start. The hand holding my mouth open
tightened at the same time as my muscles jerked, so my head barely moved;
but Keaton pulled the tool swiftly back. He gave me a look of wide-eyed
scolding. "C'mown!" he exclaimed. "You want me to give you a tongue
piercing?"

"That really hurt!"

"I know." Uncharacteristically, he backed down. "Sorry, bud. But I gotta
check something. Can you hold still for me a second longer?"

I nodded, and without another word his hands moved back into the center of
my vision. I felt my body tense up as they invaded my mouth. A tendon
flexed sharply in Keaton's forearm as he poked downward with the probe, and
I grunted. Stinging pain pierced into my jaw, then there was a strange
wrenching. My hands white-knuckled the armrests of the treatment chair, but
I didn't move. A moment later, it was over.

"Very good," Keaton murmured, and as he withdrew his hands I thought one
latex-clad thumb stroked my neck. Not as an absent gesture this time, but
definitely on purpose. A shiver went down my spine.

He was holding something. "You know what this is?" he asked, pulling the
dust mask below his chin. The item was tiny and silver, and after a second
Keaton dropped it into my hand. My heart sank.

"It's a filling," he said. "One of yours."

"Great," I grumbled, tonguing the place where the pain had been. Sure
enough, a small crater was there. "You pulled out one of my fillings?
You're a dentist like a bull in a china shop, Keaton.

Keaton smirked. "That sum-mm-bitch popped out like a watermelon seed, kid,"
he said. "Or would you rather have it come out in one of the dining hall
biscuits?"

He sighed theatrically and crossed his arms. Like, It's not my fault you
didn't floss, but here are your options. It felt exactly like what a real
dentist would do, which only made me madder.

"Look," he said. "Luckily for you, I happened to be a resourceful and
extremely skilled medic. I can put in a temporary filling."

"You can?" I perked up. That, honestly, would solve things.

"Very temporary," he finished, raising his eyebrows. "You won't be able to
eat, and you'll have to go to Las Cruces tomorrow to see a real dentist."

It felt like he was inviting me to ask something. Like this was option A.
"Or?" I pushed him, only half playing the game. "Can you fix it better?"

He scoffed, his tone mocking. "What, and do real dentistry?" he said. "I'm
not trained for that..." He had made his way to a drawer, and opened it
carefully. "But I do happen to have this bad boy."

>From it he pulled an electric tool with a cord and a few pieces, much
bigger than an electric toothbrush. It took me a second to see the way the
thick cord went from a box-like module to a small ending; to recognize what
it probably was. My stomach turned over inside of me, and my eyes popped
out.

"What is that?" I croaked.

I saw now that Keaton had been watching me, something like a smirk in his
eyes as he gauged every tick of my reaction to the drill. He set it down
lazily on the counter, letting the cord uncoil.

"I inherited it from the last medic," he said. "Always wondered when it
might come in handy." His eyes flashed to me. "But it's like you said. I
ain't no dentist."

"But you'd drill," I said, not sure why I phrased it that way. A statement,
not a question.

Keaton took a step toward me. He pulled absently on one of his gloves, now
both so tight with sweat that they clung to the shapes of his fingernails.
"Alright, Whisman. Let's not act so scared," he said in a low voice. He
took another step. "You're enjoying this as much as I am." Step. "And you
know I won't make a mistake." Slowly, he put his hand to my chin, and I
felt his eyes burn into me as he lifted my face upward. "Or don't you trust
your doc?" he asked mockingly.

I swallowed, my eyes not leaving his. My mouth was dry.

"OK," I mumbled.

His grip tightened, giving my head a rude jerk like an angry drill
instructor. But he was grinning. "Okay what?"

"You think you can fix my tooth?"

He tut-tutted. "I know I can fix your tooth, Whisman," he said, and with a
brotherly pat on my cheek he let me go.

Immediately his back was to me, making clunk and click noises as he set up
the drill. "But it's gonna hurt. I hope you know what you got yourself
into."

I groaned, wanting to say that I hadn't known what I was getting myself
into, no, I had been manipulated. But I just watched him prepare, slumped
in the chair passively waiting my turn. Something had filled my stomach, a
white-hot crackling static. I was terrified, but also... excited.

Excited? What was wrong with me? This was going to hurt like hell. But I
liked watching Keaton work. I liked being the subject of his work.

"Time to lay back," Keaton said, flicking a chrome switch. I jumped as the
black leather couch I had been laying on slowly lowered, the old gears
buzzing like a garbage disposal. He stripped off his gloves and tossed
them, then put a new pair at the ready on the silver tray of tools. Next to
it went the dental drill, Keaton draping the cord ably across the tray, the
way the Crocodile Hunter would move a python.

"You ready?" he asked, bringing a rolling chair next to the treatment
couch. Now I really did feel like I was at a dental office, and I started
regretting it. Whatever weird tenderness had come between me and Keaton, it
felt gone as he grinned wolfishly, taking a pair of safety glasses from a
drawer and propping them on his head. "Safety first," he said by way of
explanation. "I have a feeling this might get messy."

He rolled back to one of the drawers, and there was rummaging as he grabbed
more things, tins and forceps and cotton balls that all went on the tray.
"I hope you don't mind if I get a little more comfortable," Keaton said,
and with one motion he arched his arms backwards so the unbuttoned uniform
shirt slipped off, leaving him in only that white tank top. My eyes went up
and down the angular muscles, the thick veins, drinking in the sight. Then
I saw that and his gaze was fixed on mine, watching my fascination
thirstily. I gulped.

"Time to get to work, Whisman." He picked up one of the gloves. With an
agile flutter of his hand he snapped it on swiftly; but then he took his
time adjusting it, wiggling his fingers like a magician as he pulled it
tight, snap, snap. He watched his own hand as he did this, as if fascinated
by the sight. Then came the second glove, his hand extended over my face as
his sinewy fingers slipped into the latex, stretching it tight. He grinned
down at me as he pulled the cuff halfway up his forearm, making a show of
letting go. Snap! The loud sound made me jump.

"Now," he said, and picked up the drill for a little test drive. Vrr,
vrrrrr! it whirred into life. "You gonn' hold still for me?"

I just nodded. He smirked, putting down the drill, reaching for something
else.

"That's good," he said. "But see, the thing is, I don't believe you. Open
wide."

I did, and felt something metal being forced into my mouth, worming its way
between my back teeth. It looked like a giant pair of forceps. "Ahh,"
Keaton coaxed me, then I heard a rhythmic clicking noise and felt the thing
expanding, forcing my jaw open. It was some kind of surgical gag: a mouth
spreader. When Keaton was done, he surveyed his handiwork.

"Now close?"

I couldn't, which was the point, of course. I started breathing heavily,
desperately, feeling a sense of panic.

"That'll keep you from gettin' tired of keeping still," he told me, sitting
up. "You'll thank me." He pulled the mask up over his face, then flipped
the safety glasses down over his eyes. They looked more like shooting
glasses to me. Face half-covered, muscley arms bare except for the latex
gloves, he looked ready to work on a shop project more than anything.

"Open," he said again, which was pointless. But he didn't seem to notice as
he stuffed one side of my mouth -- the one not held open by the forceps --
with cotton.

"See, this is the one thing I don't have any substitute for," he drawled as
he poked it into place. "Suction. And I reckon you'll be drooling up a lake
by the time I'm done with you. So this'll have to do."

With the cotton in one side of my mouth and the forceps in the other, I
felt strangely out of my body. It was like I was a shop project, clamped in
the vice and ready for the mechanic to work on. Keaton certainly didn't
look like himself, bent over me with his face covered up except for his
mean slanting eyebrows and the shock of his blond hair.

He reached up, and the light went on. Then he grabbed the drill.

"This is gonna hurt," he said, and lowered his hands to my mouth.

First there was the invasion of his roughly shoving fingers; then the
noise, the noise of the drill. That was bad enough. I winced as it kicked
into life, whining in my ear. Then there was the vibration.

And then the pain started, just little spurts of it. I imagined my nerves
like the veins of color embedded in a stone of quartz, bloody little caches
bursting like firecrackers as Keaton's drill found them. He went on
drilling; and as he did the pain became deeper. Not the pop of
firecrackers, but the slow burn of being touched with a hot griddle,
pressed to it longer and longer. The sound of the drill bored into my
brain.

I groaned but Keaton kept going, that slightly wild look in his eyes. A
jerk of pain jolted me as the drill went deeper; I jerked, involuntarily.
But his hand was there, and I saw his triceps gulp like an Adam's apple as
his grip tightened in perfect time, keeping me fixed to the chair.

He stopped. I thought I saw a mischievous smile, but behind the mask and
the gleaming screen of the safety glasses it was hard to tell.

"C'mown," Keaton rumbled in a low voice. "Take it like a man."

He rolled his seat over to the side of the treatment chair, leaning over me
forwards so he was no longer upside-down. One gloved hand went to my
forehead, pinning me back to the headrest, and the drill whirred back into
life. Then the pain started again.

I gripped the armrests, screwing my eyes shut. I thought I felt tears
welling through them. Take it like a man, I repeated to myself; but a
particularly sharp stab made me convulse. Every part of my body twisted
involuntarily except for my head, which was pinned to the chair with a grip
like a vice. One arm flew free, brushing against the crotch of Keaton's
pants.

My eyes widened.

I had felt something.

Keaton stopped drilling for a second and glanced down, but otherwise said
nothing. Then he said, "Stay open for me now," and his tone was
unmistakably playful as he leaned deeper in, his face hovering close above
mine. His crotch brushed up against the handrest.

Keaton had a boner.

Vroom-vroom! The drill whirred back into life, and my eyes searched
Keaton's sharp glare behind the safety glasses as he went back to work,
looking for some clue. I forgot about it a second later as the pain stabbed
back into me. I let out a gasp. Floundering, my hand shifted again, not
quite by accident this time. I brushed it over the springy tip I had felt,
firm in shape, giving it a bit of pressure through the camo pants.

And for just a second, the drill stopped. Keaton's eyes flashed from my
mouth up to my own eyes, lightning-fast, and saw that I was watching him.
The resolve in them darkened, the fierce slant of his eyebrows steepened.
But it seemed to me it was the resolve of a predator, tinged with the glee
of the hunt.

Vrr-vrrrr! The drill whirred back into life.

Pinning my head back against the chair with renewed force, he started
drilling deeper.

And now I boldly grabbed at his dick through the fabric. I worked it up and
down, letting it consume my thoughts instead of the pain searing into my
jaw. I made guttural choking noises under the drill, but I barely noticed.
Instead I noticed that Keaton's dick throbbed under my touch; noticed its
shape, the firm roundness of the head. When I groaned again, the drilling
paused. He withdrew the power tool from my mouth.

"Unzip it," he said in a hoarse voice.

I fumbled with the zipper, then said something muffled through the gag. It
was tinged with the whine of complaint. Keaton must have correctly
interpreted it as "Why don't you do it?", because he held his hands up in
front of my face.

"I'm wearing gloves, idiot," he snapped.

I had gotten it open by then. An STD joke dangled in front of me -- what,
why can't you touch it with gloves, are you infected? But it would have
just been a bunch of muffled gibberish. And besides, as I wormed my hand
into the space of Keaton's fly he leaned in again, filling my mouth with
the metal tool and his rubbery fingers. Keaton's patient, it seemed, did
not get the last word.

"Hang on tight, Whisman," he said, and now there was no doubt of the grin
in his wild eyes. Once again I felt the probing of his fingers tighten into
a tight grasp; I felt the whirring vibration make contact with my jaw. And,
as I worked my hand over the long rod now poking out from Keaton's fly, I
felt a searing burst of pain.

"UNNNGH!" I cried out aloud. But my head didn't move; the latex-covered
fingers held it; the vice of the surgical forceps held it. My fingers
moved, and Keaton's dick responded. Or maybe it was responding to my
muffled groans, because I was sure he was enjoying this. Soft skin touched
my fingers as his member came free from the fly of his boxers. I felt a
bead of precum, which I smeared down the length of the shaft.

No way, I thought. This is not happening. Or at least, 20% of my brain
thought that as the other 80% focused on the sound, the squeal, the
horrible crunching vibration drilling into my head. I looked up at Keaton's
eyes, wild above the mask, and suddenly felt like whatever tool was in my
mouth that I couldn't see was an extension of him, an extension of his
metal-strong fingers. And as I watched his fingers twitch and flex, working
the drill, I felt the white-hot pain of Keaton entering me, entering me,
entering a place somewhere inside my bones where no one should be allowed.
Where only a medic with his sharp points and power tools and wicked grin
would ever dare to invade.

I pumped on Keaton's dick, and there was another rough groan. But it wasn't
me. It was him. I saw him clench his jaw. Though he didn't close his eyes,
a tic passed through them, like it was taking an inhuman effort to focus on
his work.

But focus he did. He muttered, "Yeah" as he pushed the drill deeper into my
tooth, making me grunt with pain. I pumped faster. "You like that?" he
muttered, holding my jaw down tight as the drill went deeper and deeper;
and I groaned louder, because I didn't like it, but because I liked
watching him glare down; because I liked watching him do what he was doing
to me. The pain arched into me like a rod of lightning. I whimpered. I kept
pumping.

"Yeah, take it like a good boy," he growled, but I wasn't. Tears were
trickling down my cheeks. I was letting out an ongoing moan. "Hold still
for the doc." I felt his hips grind against the chair. I was pumping
furiously now; it was the only thing in my mind besides the pain.

"Nnnngghhr!" Keaton let out something between a growl and a roar, and he
reared up. He ripped off the mask, breaking the string, leaving only the
safety glasses on his face. He was breathing hard, teeth clenched, a look
of mad triumph on his face. Then I gave one last pump and he was coming,
hot liquid streaming onto my dental bib. The first thrust of his hips
rammed hard into the treatment chair and rattled it sideways, making me
jump. His hands were held high in front of him, like he needed to keep them
sterile through it all, and he shuddered as his hips gyrated involuntarily,
again and again, finally slowing. A last pump of my hand, and he was still.

A moment passed. Delicately, he put down the drill. He removed the mouth
spreader, then the cotton balls. Then he offered me a canteen of water.

"Now rinse," he said.

Wordlessly, stunned, I did. As soon as the water hit my tooth I grunted,
the cold almost as bad as the drill itself.

"What the hell!" I complained when I had spit. I saw Keaton was grinning at
my reaction to the water. He shrugged.

"What'd you listen to me for? I said I ain't no dentist." He was zipping up
his pants, and now he stripped off the glove he had touched himself with,
reaching for a new one. "Now let's see if we can fill this up."

I was indignant. No mention of what had just happened? The supreme gayness
of it? The cum still cooling on my bib? Spluttering with rage, all I could
manage to say was, "That's all?"

He looked sharply at me, surprised delight on his face. "Oh, you want more?"

I would have punched him, if I hadn't known he'd pummel me in return. "I
mean, that's how you decide to finish drilling," I exclaimed. "When you're
satisfied? That's... that's..." I was at a loss for words. "You drilled my
tooth to a pulp just to get off, is that it?"

His hand went suddenly to my collar, the one he had degloved. It was a
shock to feel his bare skin brush against mine as he grabbed a fistful of
shirt and drove it into my sternum. His face zoomed dangerously close. The
smile had dropped.

"I'm the camp doc," he said slowly. "I drilled your tooth the way I see
appropriate. And now I'm gonna fill it the way I see appropriate. And I'm
gonna do a damn good job of it." He gave me a single, violent shake. I
flinched. "Any questions?"

I shook my head.

"Anyone at camp gonna hear anything different?"

I shook my head again, fast this time. A definite no. My part in this was
anything but scot-free.

He must have realized that, because he chuckled as he released me. "Good to
hear, Whisman," he said. Then his hand wandered down my chest to my own
crotch, giving a cursory flick. His eyebrows raised.

"Aha!" he said. He had found the beginnings of an erection there. Somehow,
after all the events of the past few minutes, that's what made me turn
beet-red. An erection from being threatened by Keaton Brown. How twisted
could you get.

"Maybe there'll even be something in it for you," he teased, and a trace of
boldness returned to me. The strange trance in which I had submitted to
Keaton's torture was fading into the past, but also solidifying: it had
really happened. And he had gotten off on it, torturing me. If I was
twisted, we were two of a kind. And holding a share of the secret -- a share
of the pleasure -- I held a share of the power.

"Oh really?" I asked. "What might that be."

"Well," Keaton drawled, "I dunno how your general health is." He raised one
eyebrow as he snapped the fresh glove onto his hand. "But I dabble in
proctology."